Chains
by TheWhipHands
Summary: Waking up dazed and confused is not on anyone's agenda, but today that's the case for Sherlock. After receiving a mysterious text, things start to fall into place.


**_We do not own the BBC Sherlock series characters, only B & C. Please review and give advice. This will not be HIGHLY graphic._**

The consulting detective opened his brilliant green eyes with a yawn. Sunlight streamed into the living room, where he apparently had fallen asleep the night before. His bold, seductive orbs darted about the trashed state of his flat. Books were interspersed around the desk and John's laptop was cracked on the ground. What in bloody hell was going on?

Looking to his left, he saw a sleeping John. He slowly got up, realising that John was curled into a tight ball; naked. Sherlock slowly realised that he, too, was entirely naked.

He crawled away from his flatmate, his dark curls hugging his sweat-dampened face, and staggered to his room. The sudden, unexplainable drowsiness caused the genius to have to use his hands for support. He closed the door clumsily felt his way through his closet. Sherlock needed to get dressed before John woke up.

A high-pitched moan distracted the dazed man and he picked his phone off the dresser.  
Impossible, it's impossible that it would be Irene. Still, Sherlock looked at the message.

_Thanks for that wonderful performance, dear. Give us a call anytime._  
_- B & C_

Performance? B & C? A puzzled look danced across Sherlock's defined mind was cluttered flat, the text, the nudity of John, the nudity of himself... Slowly, things started fitting together, and the detective was forced to remember.

_-The previous morning-_

"Sherlock," John called from the flight of stairs. "You've got some more clients!"

Sherlock flipped through the pages of his book and replied monotonously. "Send them up, if they're in such a hurry."

John turned to the two women. One was tall and blonde with a daring stance. She was wearing a tight red dress that violently challenged her blue eyes. The woman accompanying her was shorter and brunette with an artistic look in her golden eyes. She was dressed in a flattering pink one-shoulder mini dress. In their minds, the two were as overdressed as they come for a consultation.

"Follow me, - Err... What did you say your names were?"

The blonde woman smirked and slid her arm around the small waist of her brown curled companion. The brunette glanced at her partner for a moment and smiled before looking away.

"We didn't," she said smoothly. "Just call us B & C. The names are a part of the game." John noticed the woman's dialect was inflicted by the accent of another country, but it was so slight that he barely picked it up.

He raised his eyebrows, about to ask more, but started walking up the stairs; it's best to not question people like this. "Come along then, you two."

The blonde walked up first, followed by the other woman. The only light in the flat came from a small lamp and the bright stars were visible through the window. Sherlock barely looked up from his book. "Hello."

Again, the blonde made the first move in communication. She walked up to Sherlock and did a small curtsy.  
"Who might you be?" He asked with another small glance.  
The woman smirked. "You may just call me B," she replied.

The detective had no reaction. He was waiting for the brunette to introduce herself to him.  
John nudged the woman, who was scrolling through her cell phone, and she quickly shoved the device into her small leather purse.

Walking briskly over to the rapt reader, she held out her hand. Sherlock still did not look up from his book as he reached toward the expectant appendage and shook it. "Then you can call me C," she said, sliding her slender hand back from the man's grip.

Sherlock's head turned up, and with the agility of a cat, he grabbed her hand back. His eyes  
locked onto the blonde woman. "You needn't tell me what your business here is; I already know. The two of you are American, but you've been in England for at least three years, judging by your dialect. You're not directly related, but very close to each other," -Sherlock examined their faces- "to the point where you've grown slightly attracted to one another. From the state of your bags -genuine leather, it seems- and clothing, it's quite obvious that you two are busy." He smirked and inspected the hand of the woman who called herself C. "Very busy, from the looks of it," he added.

C flushed a deep red and B's phone began to ring. "Shit! Sorry, but I've got to take this." John motioned for her to go downstairs and she gladly obeyed. Sherlock watched her like a hawk as she descended the stairs. B stepped out with little grace. Her body language screamed anxiety. There was no one on the other end of the phone, of course. She had simply set her phone's timer to buzz.

Smiling, she locked the front doors and ascended again. She and her sister were going to have _so_ much fun this evening.

**XXX**

Slowly closing the door to the flat, B muttered an apology for her phone as she slipped past John. The army doctor opened his mouth with a silent exclamation as the woman stuck a needle into his hip.

"John? What is it?" John's mouth still hung open at the sound of Sherlock's voice. B stood there, looking confused as to the state of the man. "What did she give him?" Sherlock demanded, turning his icy glare to C. The detective jumped out of his chair and tightened his grip on her. The corners of the woman's lips rose to a smirk. Sherlock's eyes shifted between the two vixens. He then let go and chuckled.

"Classic. Locking doors and knocking out important men. Hardly the work of professionals. Then again, I'm the only professional in this room." He smoothed down his shirt and paced around. "Now, what did you inject poor John with?" Suddenly, the detective stopped in his tracks, a knowing look on his face. "Of course! Your classic sedat-" Sherlock was cut off, his mouth hanging open, as C jabbed his thigh with another glistening needle. His eyes rolled back, and his body dropped to the floor.

It wasn't a very long hiatus until Sherlock regained consciousness. Fidgeting about, his limbs were proving to be quite disobedient. They shifted and turned, but wouldn't lift up. It annoyed the waking Sherlock, for he was used to stretching as he woke up. Instead, he opened his eyes and found himself chained to his wall. His spray painted smiley face was watching him crudely from a few inches above his curls.

"Sherlock..." A mumble caught Sherlock's attention and his eyes rested on John, who was chained three feet away. He was still sleeping, looking comfortable in his unnatural position. Sherlock couldn't imagine what the conditions were in war that would make being chained up a desirable sleeping spot. Taking another look at the chains, he noticed they were steel and very used; nothing his lock-picking kit couldn't handle. Sherlock looked down and realised that, in his haze, he had forgotten that he wasn't wearing his coat or that his valuables were missing from his person.  
"Sleepy-head's awake. C, would you be a dear and wake Doctor Watson?" B strode into the living room with confidence and poise, C striding in closely behind her. Both were dressed in black velvet robes and vibrant red pumps. Sherlock watched them with a scowl. Having grade-A prostitutes take advantage of him was not on the genius's agenda.


End file.
